


No Deeper World

by Argyle



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-26
Updated: 2011-10-26
Packaged: 2017-10-24 23:27:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/269091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They aren't supposed to take care of each other, or care deeply; that isn't how this works. But sometimes things have a way of rising to the surface.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Deeper World

Charles wakes himself, laughing: something Erik said--

\--or didn't say.

But it's clear enough to draw a low rumble from Charles' chest and drag him from sleep. He remembers it for a moment. He remembers dreaming of Erik's hand, deft fingers working at a bit of metal without even touching the surface-- of what, exactly? Then that too has gone.

Charles puffs out a breath. "Erik?"

No answer. It's just after midnight, and the glare from headlights and nearby neon signs casts intermittent lines across the ceiling in a wan impersonation of life.

Of course Charles is quite alone in the room.

He's almost glad of that. He knows he must look a wreck: his legs are tangled in the single sex-scented sheet, and his bare skin feels sweat-slick, uncomfortable in the still, humid air.

Dimly, he raises himself on his elbows and scans the floor for his discarded y-fronts, or failing that, the towel he'd hurried from Erik's hips some hours ago-- Erik had come out of the bathroom wearing naught but that damned threadbare thing, as if it left something to the imagination, and Charles isn't a saint. He isn't someone to turn down a veritable feast, not after a long, dull day filled with endless miles of featureless road and overcooked diner meals.

And Erik.

Erik isn't bad company. In fact, if Charles allows himself a bit of honesty, Erik is bloody marvelous company. Erik is insightful, if too set in his thinking; humorous if dry. Not to mention an unequivocally good lay.

And he has gradually opened to Charles. Even without the influence of Charles' power -- or in spite of it, for Erik made it clear weeks ago that if he discovers Charles snooping about in his head, he'll make Charles very sorry indeed -- Erik's lately offered up, or at least not disguised, bits of personal information.

Or preferences. Like how he takes his coffee, which is useful knowledge whenever Charles is stuck in some restaurant booth ordering for them both while Erik is off making phone calls.

Charles hopes that Erik is merely being judicious, diligent in planning ahead for the next leg of their journey. (And Charles knows that Erik is in fact continuing his own search for Shaw, securing names and last known whereabouts, or deftly transferring assets here or there.) But either way, Erik is quite good at arranging things.

Which brings Charles back to the present, standing by himself in a dodgy motel room, at last having discovered his underwear on the table beneath the window, set in a neat pile with his trousers and shirt.

He supposes he should be flattered. And also grateful that Erik has yet to break out the iron and press Charles' things in addition to folding them. Erik's own shed clothes are already back in his suitcase: dressing down for the evening is apparently the closest he gets to unpacking.

It makes sense. Surely it does. They're rarely in a room for more than a night. But something in Charles wishes, quite foolishly, that they had more _time_. If he could, Charles would give Erik reason to linger, or show him that it's not so uncommon to find yourself in a place worth knowing.

*

In America, Erik reasons, the potential to _have_ has become so widespread that it exists almost beyond recognition. There is ample land and air, and limitless highways marking the path between mountain and service station and sea.

There is this: _Swim at Your Own Risk_.

As though the result is perhaps not always worth the means. But it is.

Even the comeliest of the motels they've stayed in (even the ones where Charles has a way of walking on the carpet without walking on it, which amuses Erik more than it bristles him) lists a swimming pool amongst its amenities. Erik has taken to donning his trunks a while after Charles falls asleep, sometimes to swim a mile or more if the night is nice.

Tonight is a nice night. Erik passes from end to end and back with even, splashless strokes, welcoming the solitude and breathing deep and occasionally glancing skyward to take in the constellations he couldn't begin to name, but is willing to accept are there.

Erik suspects Charles can name them all, but doesn't care enough to ask him -- such frivolity doesn't come easy.

But _this_ is nothing less than necessity. He has almost finished his set, nearly reached the point where all the kinks brought on by the day's drive have been worked from the muscles of his neck and shoulders and back and legs, before the iron latch on the poolside fence creaks open.

Charles steps onto the patio, then shuts the gate behind him. He meets Erik's eye, his face the very picture of _Don't mind me_. But he doesn't say a word.

A few more laps. Erik focuses, moves with precision.

And then: //Isn't it past your bedtime, Charles?//

There's water in Erik's ears, so he feels more than he hears Charles' answering laugh. //And to think I worried after your whereabouts. When I found you gone, I thought you might be out on the town taking in a little local color.//

//Fucking some nameless barfly, you mean?//

//No,// Charles sends. //That isn't what I meant.//

//But you've thought it. What would there be to stop me?//

//I-- I don't know.//

Erik comes to the head of the pool, grips the edge and stands. The water hits him mid-stomach. He smiles. "You don't know," he repeats, a little bitterly. "But you _could_ , couldn't you?"

"I won't," says Charles. "I've told you that."

"You could be quite strong, my friend, if you'd only let yourself." Erik shakes his head, feeling droplets scatter from his hair and down his face. A moment more, and he's hoisted himself up. He leaves wet footprints on the cement as he goes for his towel.

Here again: why would Charles not choose to _have_ if he's presented with such power? Why not use every strength he possesses? Erik can't understand. And yet even now there's something in Charles' face that tells him he needn't. But he does; he must.

"Perhaps I select my battles with care," says Charles, "and remain contented."

"What you fail to realize is that there's only one battle worth fighting."

Charles appears to consider this. But only out of habit, as if the argument already has a sort of lived-in familiarity. The lateness of the hour shows on him, leaves his expression tired, his features at once reddened and pale. Then he says, "Why don't we stay here an extra day? If you don't sneak off without me, we can swim together. D'you know, in high school I was state finalist in the individual medley."

Erik didn't know. "You're delirious." He finishes drying himself and knots his towel around his waist.

"I swear it's true." Charles' smile turns mischievous. (It amuses Erik more than it bristles him.)

"One day?"

"That's all it will take. I'll show you. You'll see."

They make it back to the room, and without touching the knob, Erik works the lock and swings the door open. Charles has fallen back to sleep by the time Erik finishes washing up, well before Erik knows without doubt that he must turn him down: in the morning, he'll pack his things, and Charles will pack his own, and they'll eat a breakfast of coffee and runny eggs and potatoes and toast. Then they'll set out.

But for now, Erik slides into bed, letting one arm drape round Charles' waist as he settles his chest against Charles' back.

He steadies his breath. The soft hair at Charles' nape only moves a little.


End file.
